


One Word

by juxtapose



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-08
Updated: 2012-02-08
Packaged: 2017-10-30 19:14:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/335147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/juxtapose/pseuds/juxtapose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The fact remains that Sherlock Holmes has discovered there is no one word to describe John Watson.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One Word

**Author's Note:**

> Fluff to the max. I apologize for any Americanisms or OOC-ness as always. Enjoy? Disclaimer: I own nothing!

Sometimes, in the swirls of trains of thought and endless equations of abnormal abnormalities in the mind of Sherlock Holmes, simple words are all that’s needed. Simple words to describe simple people in their simple little world. It makes it easier to sift through the unimportant, the irrelevant information marked for Deletion, and stick to the bare facts. This is how Sherlock Holmes lives his life. The workings of his mind move rapidly in run-ons and infinite analyses, while the people around him stay in orbit with their little words, the only words Sherlock needs to know.

They are perusing a double murder. Sherlock looks up sharply at the sound of a very annoying, drawling voice and matches it to Anderson within milliseconds. _Anderson_ , he thinks, _Idiotic_. Sherlock runs his hand over the side of the wall, which is covered in a strange soot-like substance. Lestrade shuffles up behind him, cocking his head to the side and saying, “What do you make of that, then?” _Lestrade. Dependent._ It’s all so easy. Straightforward.

_Mrs. Hudson. Sincere._

_Molly Hooper. Naive._

_Mycroft. Insufferable._

Simple words, and nothing more. Sometimes they change over time (an Upgrade in Sherlock’s Hard Drive), but more often than not, Sherlock chooses them so they never have to. They’re default. They are what Sherlock falls back on when everything else in his mind goes awry.

“Sherlock? I made tea. Here—oi, I wasn’t done reading the paper before you took it, y’know.”  
And then there’s John.

Sherlock clears his throat and shrugs nonchalantly. “You can have it back when I’m finished.”

“Oh, lovely. Cheers.” Sarcasm, a kiss on the forehead, the clatter of a teacup and saucer on the table. This is John, this is always John. If it were anyone else, Sherlock would have shrugged this all off as dull. Boring. Predictable. But for some reason John never ceases to surprise him in his unadulterated humanity. It is irony beyond even Sherlock’s understanding. It’s frustrating.

The fact remains that Sherlock Holmes has discovered there is no one word to describe John Watson.

There’s _interesting_ , because, well, he is, most of the time. There’s _open_ because even still Sherlock can read him like a book. There’s _patient_ , _determined_ , and as strange as the term may sound reverberating in his thoughts, _loving_. But none of these seem to be the word Sherlock is looking for.

Sherlock looks up from the newspaper, appraising John as he shuffles over to pop a piece of toast in his mouth. He’s dressed for his shift at the clinic which starts in approximately twenty-seven minutes.

“Expecting a case today?” he inquires through a mouth full of bread and jam, and Sherlock simply shakes his head.

John evidently notices Sherlock’s staring, as a look of confusion flashes across his eyes. “Erm. What?”

And then Sherlock has an idea. He knows he and John obviously have very different mindsets, but he wonders if maybe John’s insight into _him_ might prompt Sherlock to come up with just the word he’s looking for. Not that Sherlock has ever much cared for what people think of him, anyway. Irrelevant. “John, I have to ask you something.”

“Okay. Make it quick though, I’ve got to run.” John half-jogs back to the table, sipping tea and skimming the news over Sherlock’s shoulder.

“If you were to choose one word that describes me, what would it be?”

At first, John laughs. Sherlock sort of expects him to. “What, is this for an exceptionally egotistical blog post or something? I have to say it beats talking about tobacco ash.”

“Just answer the question, John.” Sherlock rolls his eyes, despite the fact that he’s not all that annoyed, even though he thinks he should be. That’s John. Always surprising him.

John pauses, furrowing his eyebrows in thought, and says, “Tough question, really. Lots of words to describe you. Impossible. Stubborn. Ridiculous. Should I go on?”

“I said _choose one_ , John. And I can’t say I know why ‘ridiculous’ is one of the first words to--”

“Mad.” John interrupts, nodding seriously.

Sherlock lets the newspaper drop to the kitchen table, folds his arms, and raises his eyebrows, craning his neck to peer up at John whose no-nonsense front is now crumbling as he breaks into a grin.

“You,” John continues, leaning forward over Sherlock, “are absolutely barking _mad_ in every possible way, and it’s just as well because I love every bit of it, you nutter.” He closes the awkward space between them and presses a kiss to Sherlock’s lips, strange and upside-down and all opposites but Sherlock finds he doesn’t mind. “Can I go to work now?”

Sherlock mutters a noncommittal “Hmm,” in reply and watches John go, hears his footsteps bound down the stairs until there’s a puzzled silence in the flat. Sherlock walks to the window, picks up his violin and begins to play, thinking of jumbled words.

***

It’s a seemingly insignificant Sunday evening in which Sherlock Holmes finds a word to describe John Watson.

Sherlock is reading. John is watching telly. John laughs every so often, the familiar sound that lulls Sherlock into a sort of half-noticed contentedness, a rare moment in which his thoughts are still (or as still as they can be).

Suddenly there is a break in the rhythm of things when John says, “You’re quiet tonight. Haven’t even predicted the ending yet.” He nods to the crime drama blaring onscreen. “You all right?”

Sherlock feels John’s gaze on him. He peels his attention away from the book he’s reading and meets John’s eyes. He’s staring, a concerned crease in his forehead, eyes full of what Sherlock has understood over time to be compassion. And that’s when it hits him.

Here is a man who walks side by side with danger on the daily. A man who has known fear, horror, the truth of the war that rages on the battlefield and in life. It thrills him just as much as it terrifies him. Even when the terror threatens to outweigh the adrenaline, John stays.

Even though John thinks Sherlock raving mad, he stays. He always does.

John’s a more than decent man. Sherlock knows this. And yet girlfriends have left as quickly as they’ve come, leaving with the realization that John’s very big metaphorical heart has been reserved for someone else all along.

And then the word is there, ghastly sentimental and foreign and Sherlock says out loud: “Mine.”

“Sorry?” John’s still there, looking as perplexed and worried and as _John_ as ever, and the word shouts in Sherlock’s mind again, an epiphany: _mine_.

It’s not a selfish claim or an affirmation of possession, because no one is really anyone's, are they? But it is simple fact: Sherlock never had a reason to have anyone. Now Sherlock has John. John, to remind him what it is to be human even when he doesn’t want to know. John, to keep him steady when he’s chasing after his thoughts racing off into the distance. Always John. He should’ve known this all along. 

_Mine._

Sherlock puts down his book. He’d been perusing an interesting chapter, but oddly it seems much less important now. He leans over and presses a kiss to John’s neck and says, “Shall we go to bed?”

Burrowed against the warmth of his neck, Sherlock can almost hear John smile. “Yeah,” he replies, “All right.” Fingers threading through Sherlock’s hair. A kiss on the temple. So very, very John. _So very, very mine_.

Sherlock suddenly thinks that maybe John’s analysis of him hadn’t been very far off at all. Maybe he is stark raving mad.

For as he tries to think of one word to describe himself now, in the haze of John Watson and dimly-lit touches, all he can think of is:

_His._

And in this moment, he thinks it’s an adequate word, indeed.


End file.
